


and i start believing her

by BerryliciousCheerio



Series: bay-verse [8]
Category: The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerryliciousCheerio/pseuds/BerryliciousCheerio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks she has a beautiful smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i start believing her

He sees her huddled in the corner of the bar, pale hands clenched around a glass filled with an amber liquid, and he thinks she looks like one of those tragic heroines from the books his parents' house is filled with. And she looks lonely. And scared. And more than a little bitter.

And he, being of sound mind and mostly sound character, decides that he will fix her.

He ambles over and slides into the seat next to her and asks as casually as he can managed, 'cause  _damn_ , she's even more gorgeous the closer he gets, "Rough week?"

Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and they look almost black, but he thinks that he can pick out golden flecks around the pupils if he squints, and there're these bags under them and she looks like she hasn't slept in years. She glares, managing to look surprisingly intimidating, even while inebriated and exhausted.

"Oh, I get it. Rough  _life_ ," is his ever-so-smooth save. Nice one, Aster.  _Niiiiice_.

Her glare hardens, but he refuses to be deterred, instead sticking out his hand and telling her, "Forte Aster, District Eight." After a minute of her staring at his hand and making no sign of wanting to shake it, he withdraws and leans back in his seat.

The woman sighs and mumbles, "Bay. District Two."

Bay. He likes it. Short and to the point, pretty but not overly so. Her parents, he thinks, must have been geniuses when it came to naming.

He asks, trying not to pry, but really, he wants to know more about her, "No last name?"

"None that matter."

Her answer breaks his heart, honest to god, it does. He's never heard someone sound so hollowed out inside, not even his mom when Arietta's birthday rolls around.

"Ah, so you're an angry drunk…?"

"Stuff it, Eight."

His assumption was correct, it seems. Damn. He's got his work cut out for him.

He comments, "You look familiar," and he's planning on going into one of his patented pickup lines, the ones that get him a girl in his bed almost every night of the week, but she looks up sharply, her eyes suddenly clear, and she hisses, "I will slaughter you with this glass. I swear I will."

He bites back a smile and looks at that glass in her hands worriedly, because,  _damn_ , she's serious, isn't she?

* * *

 

The drinking turns out to be a problem. A rather large one. But nothing he can't handle. Nope, nothing too hard for the admirable For-

He flinches when she screams, "Goddammit, Aster, give me the fucking bottle!"

The bathroom door shakes as she throws her body against it, but he's not too worried, because, really, she weighs, like, a buck ten, sopping wet, and there's no way she's getting through that door.

He continues emptying every alcoholic liquid down the drain, and he thinks she can hear him doing this, because the door shakes some more, and then stops suddenly. He can hear her start to cry, and his heart is reduced to a pile of ash because of that infuriating girl, and he hears a muffled, broken, "Please, Forte?" through the door.

But he's not giving in.

She means far too much to him to give in, because giving in means letting her go. He watched his brother drink himself half to death, watched his mother fight her urge to drink for years after the Games, and he's not letting the one girl that might actually make him want to consider the dreaded  _m-word_  go without a fight.

Once the liquor's down the drain, he unlocks the bathroom door, and she comes barreling out, manic and needy, scanning the room for a fix, and when she realizes what he's done, she starts hitting him with a surprising amount of power.

She punches and kicks, screams and begs, cries and bargains, and it's all he can do to keep from driving her to the nearest bar. He wraps his arms around her and slides her to the ground, rocks her back and forth.

Bay fights him weakly, her screams becoming whimpers and her punches becoming spasms as she begins to sob. He kisses the top of her head and tells her that she'll be okay, but honestly? He's not so sure that anything will be okay for her.

* * *

 

Their first time without an alcohol fueled lusty haze is unintentional. Or, maybe it's intentional on her part, but he's completely blindsided. Or maybe he's not. He doesn't really care.

But it's been almost seven months since that first night in the bar, since he first laid eyes on Bay Fervor, the girl at the end of the bar, and he walks into his apartment to find her in the kitchen, staring at the stove warily, clad in perhaps the sexiest things he's ever seen her in (his shirt. He admits that he may be slightly narcissistic).

She looks up when the floorboards squeak under his feet, and she frowns like he's done something wrong. He manages to tear his eyes away from her ass (where has she been hiding those jeans?) and he surveys the damage inflicted upon his kitchen.

"Um."

That's all he manages before she states angrily, her nose wrinkling and lips pursing, "Your fucking oven hates me." And then her tone is sharper when she tells him, "You're home too early. Get out."

And she looks so goddamn beautiful right then, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, the dying sun picking up the hints of red in it, her hands planted on her hips –god, those  _hips_ –, nose wrinkled and mouth open to let him have it –he just can't help himself.

He crosses the small kitchen in a few steps, and lifts her up onto a counter, kissing her and smirking at the little noise of surprise that she makes from the back of her throat.

But then she takes control, which he's really not used to, because normally, she's needy and just wants him to take that grief, that burden off of her, and he always wishes he could do that –he's really overthinking this, and he shouldn't be, because his sexy, predatory girlfriend is right there and wrapping her legs around his waist and crossing her ankles behind his back, yanking him closer, and her lips are soft and pressing hard against his.

Her fingers snake up into his hair, and she pulls, hard, as he trails his lips down to her pulse point.

"God,  _Forte_."

He's not used to hearing his name said like that, all hunger and need and fire. …Maybe he likes it a little more than he ought to.

* * *

 

"Love you, Bay."

"Thanks."

He smirks into his coffee at her slightly startled reply. He guesses that she didn't hear it a lot as a kid, or as a singleton, especially with her history, and he still gets a kick out of seeing her eyes widen slightly in panic, just before she thanks him coolly.

But he's willing to wait until she can say it back. For her, he's always willing to wait.

And then, one day, he's making her breakfast because she's absolutely crap at cooking (his roof still has smoke stains on it) and a pair of slim arms slip under his, and he feels her leaning into him, nose pressed up against his spine.

"Morning."

Her voice is muffled, but he can tell that she's just woken up, 'cause she sounds childlike and sleepy, kind of like she's been at a fair all day and is falling asleep on the Ferris wheel, if he wants to be poetic.

He smiles down at the omelet he's making for her and says, "Morning Sleepyhead."

"Not sleepy. Satisfied. Exhausted. You didn't let me sleep much."

"At least I feed you, right?"

She worms her way under his arm to inspect the breakfast. She's wearing an old t-shirt of his and a pair of her running shorts –interesting fact he's learned about her in their one year, four months together; she runs when she's depressed, when she's angry, when she's extremely happy– and she smiles up at him lazily, and then glances down at her food.

"What's in it?"

"Mushrooms, basil, ham, onions, and tomatoes."

"Oh, my. You know me far too well."

"Try to. Now, go look pretty in the living room while I cook."

She rolls her eyes and leaves, and he returns to cooking. A couple of minutes later, he walks out to find her studying the newspaper, sitting Indian-style on the couch, brow furrowed in concentration as she scans the editorials.

"Breakfast, love. Enjoy."

She glances up from her reading and looks down just as quickly, folding down the ear to mark her place, and then smiles and grabs the plate from him, leans over to peck his cheek when he sits down to join her.

"Love you."

She says it casually, like she's telling him that she'll be at the school late or something, but he knows she's a little worried by the way she looks shyly at him through the corner of her eye. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulls her to him and presses a kiss to her temple.

She hums contentedly, subconsciously, and leans into him before saying, "You need to cook for me more often."

He sighs and says, "Love you too, Bay."

* * *

 

He's got her pressed against a wall, legs around his waist and moaning as his hands roam her body, when he realizes that she is what he wants. For, well, ever. She's pretty much all he needs to survive, at this point, all he ever wants to see when he wakes up in the morning, all he wants to hold as he falls asleep at night.

He stills, suddenly, and she makes a little noise of discontent, and glares at him, chest heaving as she breathes heavily.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Aster?"

"Let's get married."

Whatever she was expecting him to say, it wasn't this, obviously, as her legs loosen and she slides down to the ground, mouth open in a little 'o' of surprise and her brown eyes uncomprehending.

"Wh–wha–?"

He grins and says again, growing more and more excited, "Babe, let's get married."

Her eyes widen some more, and he marvels at her for a minute, how, even now, after a twelve and a half hour day, with her hair tangled and makeup smudged, she manages to take his breath away. She stares at him for a full minute, and then her lips, swollen from his attention, quirk up into a tiny smile.

"You got a ring?"

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He panics for a minute, because for the life of him, he can't think straight –god, she's saying  _yes_ – but then he remembers that, yeah, he's got a ring. He's had one, now, for almost four and a half months.

He slips out from her grasp and basically sprints into their bedroom, fumbles in his work bag for a minute, and then runs back, little black box held in his shaking hands.

The ring's kind of gorgeous, if he says so himself.

It's simple, because he knew that she'd hate anything more, and it's just a solitaire, on a silver band, with two smaller diamonds on either side, embedded in the silver, but the way she looks at it––

it makes him feel like he's just given her the world. And he realizes that, in some ways, he just has.

Her eyes are shining when she looks back up at him, and her voice is shaky when she asks, "Do I have to put it on myself, or what?"

* * *

 

She wears jeans, with her hair in a ponytail when they get married. He wears a pullover his mom knitted for him, like, ten years ago.

They weren't planning on eloping, were planning a big white wedding when he looks over at her as they pour over brochures and sees her frowning down at the one in her hands –locations, he thinks– and he realizes that, shit, she's not really going to have anyone at the damn thing, just a handful or so of friends.

So, he tugs the papers out of her hands and tells her to pack a bag, and they get a pair of last minute tickets to the Capitol.

Twenty minutes later, they have a hotel room.

The next day, they stand in front of an official who reads from a book that he remembers his grandmother caring about and that Bay rolls her eyes at.

He doesn't pay much attention, because he realizes that she's wearing a white blouse and he swears that it kind of looks like a wedding dress and he can't resist; he reaches around and tugs her hair out of its holder and she glares up at him, but it doesn't really matter because the sun's shining in on her and with her hair down, she looks a tiny bit angelic.

She doesn't have any makeup on, but that's how he likes her, clean and open, where he can count every freckle on her cheeks, where he can see every fleck of color in her eyes, can see the tiny scar on the bridge of her nose that he knows she got from a bar-fight when she was sixteen.

He thinks that his mouth moves of its own accord, but he's paying attention to her lips as they form the words, "I do." She's smiling when she says this and he thinks that his heart might just be exploding, or something.

* * *

 

The bed dips as she gets up again. In his sleepy haze, he wonders if she's got the flu, and if he needs to force her into a doctor's office. He hears her retching from the bathroom, and, being the good, dutiful husband he is, he rolls out of bed and wanders after her, pulls her hair back, rubs her back, tracing her spine.

Once she's emptied her stomach of what little there seemed to be, he yawns and says, "Babe, you should really go to the doctor."

"You should go to the doctor to see about your head up your ass."

He raises his eyebrows lazily at her, but then writes her mumbled response off as sleepiness. He turns to leave, but then he hears perhaps the most amazing words ever.

"I'm late.  _Very_  late."

And in the split second before he reacts, he freaks.

He's always wanted kids, but he realized that Bay didn't really want kids, and he was absolutely willing to give that dream up for her. And now –god, he can't even explain how happy he feels, but he's worrying about her, too, because he knows her history, and they don't ever really talk about it, but it can't be easy for her to face motherhood with no mother to turn to.

He whirls around and he knows he's grinning, and her pale, worried face brightens as she starts smiling at him (he thinks she has a beautiful smile), and he can't resist, he just grabs her and starts spinning her, and she's laughing, and when he sets her back down on the ground and looks at her, he thinks that there's no other person in the world that he'd rather be doing this with.

* * *

 

She doesn't quite enjoy the pregnancy as much as he does, he notices, and he wonders if that might be a problem, but then he'll press a hand to her rounded out tummy and a little foot or elbow or hand will press back, and it's all good again.

But he still sees how she hesitates in front of mirrors, how she takes great care to dress in clothes that cover quite a lot of skin (he protests loudly to this, of course, but it never seems to stop her), how she'll brush her fingers across her stomach and then reel them back just as quickly, as if she's forgotten about the life she's been growing for the past, oh, seven and a half months.

It kind of breaks his heart.

They don't find out the sex, nor do they really discuss names (he'll suggest one, she'll ignore him), and he's pretty sure she doesn't know how to change an infant's diaper, but he doesn't really care, because on days that he doubts that they'll be capable parents, when he's getting so amazingly frustrated with her, she'll walk out of their bedroom, palm flat against her belly, and her face will brighten when the baby kicks, and she thinks he's not watching, but the fact of the matter is that he's always watching her.

She changes far too much to do anything else.

* * *

 

He's always thought she was gorgeous, but seeing her with their daughter is…incomprehensible. Mind blowing. He has an amazing new respect for her body.

He'd always loved her body, loved every bit that made up his wife, but when she nurses their child, he finds it hard not to watch. She glares and calls him a pervert, but he's past trying to explain it.

It's not really even about her breast being open like that, about her just…whipping them out all of a sudden, because that's her weapon of choice against him when they're fighting, she'll just yank her shirt off and end the argument.

He actually likes watching her face more.

She'll just look at their daughter, no matter what she could be doing, and just watch as Clove drifts to sleep. And it's breathtaking seeing her be so open, so unguarded.

She's not even that open with him, he thinks, but she lays her soul on the table for Clove, lays herself bare for her child, and he's pretty sure there's nothing more amazing. But then again, he's said that before about her.

* * *

 

She's got this whole motherhood thing down pat, he thinks, as she balances Arietta on her hip and shuffles down the hallway with Clove hanging off her leg.

She's murmuring to their daughters, telling them about how Clo was going to start kindergarten the next day and, oh, mommy was going to miss her so much, but that she was going to have so much fun with all the other kids at school.

He wonders if she misses teaching at all, if she misses going to work every morning, because she gave up her job in favor of staying home with their children, right around the time her maternity leave ended with Clove. But she insists she doesn't, that their kids make up for it, and he'll be satisfied.

She looks up at him, and her eyes are all soft and warm, like they are when he makes her dinner and makes her stay in bed all day, like they were when Clove brought home a Mother's Day card for her.

He likes her eyes like that; maybe even more than when her eyes darken with lust when he wanders into their bedroom fresh from the shower. But now his mind is wandering.

He watches as she shuffles into the living room, where she gives up and flops onto the couch, cuddling Arietta close to her and patting the space next to her, gesturing for their eldest to join her.

And when she does, he wants to take a picture of it, capture it and keep it forever because he's pretty sure that this is what paradise is, his girls in their home, smiling and laughing and just…his.

He also wonders whether he's lost his mind a little bit.

* * *

 

When he's forty-three, and the kids are teenagers, and she's been doing something right 'cause she still looks like she's twenty (she'll smack him and say it's his imagination when he mentions this, but he still sees how she blushes), she tells him about the baby she aborted when she was seventeen, and how she barely even remembers it, she was so drunk.

She tells him that she's narrowed down the father to nine possibilities, and she tells him that she drank her way through the pre-during-and-post procedure.

She tells him that, for two weeks, she was a mother, that she actually considered keeping it, and that she's always wondered what her life would have been like, if she'd have the life she has now if she had.

He glances over at her, and in the half light, he can see the tear tracks shining on her cheeks.

* * *

 

He has a heart attack when he's fifty-seven. Bay's the one that finds him, on the floor of their bedroom, clutching his chest, and she drops to her knees beside him, not even wincing even though he knows that her back has been giving her trouble again.

He tries to sit up, tries to make her get off her knees, but she shoves him back down roughly and grabs the phone. He stays where she left him, because he's weak and she's pretty persuasive, and he's worried that if he tries to move, she or his heart will try to kill him.

Later, when he's in the hospital and the kids have shuffled out to get something to eat, she glares at him from her seat and says, "Dammit, Aster, scare me like that again, and it won't be your heart that does you in."

And he believes her.

Oh, does he believe her.

* * *

 

He's eighty-two and he knows that there will be no tomorrow for him. All week, he's been feeling off, and he can't explain it, he just  _knows_. So, that entire week, instead of denial, he spends it making sure that everyone he loves knows that he loves them, knows how important they are to him.

He spends extra time with the great-grandkids, the grandkids, makes sure that he calls his kids every day, ends every conversation with an I love you.

And Bay–

he's not sure if he'll ever be able to fully convey just how much she means to him, just how much a part of him she's become. But he tries, because she deserves to know.

She gets a little jumpy when he makes sure to kiss her and tell her he loves her before they go to sleep every night, like she knows what he's doing and is thrown off balance because of it.

Friday night, he does the same thing, wraps his arms around her gently and kisses the top of her head, and she tilts her head up to look at him, her eyes flashing with defiance.

She doesn't say what he expects, no angry "Don't you dare die on me, Aster," but instead asks quietly, "Dance with me?"

He smiles down at her, and lets her go long enough to shuffle over to the radio, nudging the volume up and taking her hand. They lean into each other, like they always have, and he feels her hand tighten around his, her skin cool to the touch. And for a moment, he feels young again.

Later that night, when they're lying in bed, he knows he's leaving, but he thinks that with her right there, it's a pretty damn good way to go.

* * *

 

She sits with his body for a while, eyes closed, fingers still interlaced with his, and she relives every moment from their life together, but it's not enough. Memories are never quite enough, she realizes.

She doesn't let herself cry.

 


End file.
